


The Sound of Rain

by darthneko



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthneko/pseuds/darthneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Above them the rain is falling, endless droplets that echo in the wet sound of skin against skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Rain

A hand slips across the bare skin of Arthur's hip, fingers finding purchase to dig and lift, and he can't help the huff of his breath as he arches into the first thrust. An answering puff of laughter brushes his lips, moments before the other man's mouth, and he twines his fingers into soft hair to keep the wet heat of the other man's tongue pressed to his own.

Above them the rain is falling, endless gusts of droplets that splash and hiss as they hit, the sound echoing until it is all around them. There are great panes of glass above them, an open view to a cloud heavy sky that looks low enough to touch, water running down the surface in never-ending sheets. Arthur can see it in his mind's eye against the red streaked black painted across the inside of his eyelids, can hear it almost viscerally, the sound beat out in a thrumming pattern deep beneath his skin and vibrating through his bones. It drives him, worked into the pattern of press and release that snaps through his hips, echoed in the wet sound of skin against skin and the pant of breath.

Teeth catch against his lower lip, tugging in a momentary bright flare before a warm, wet tongue laves the hurt away. Arthur's breath stutters in his throat, his fingers scrabbling through hair and across sweat slick skin and the play of muscles beneath his palms. If he arches his back just right there are stars blooming in bursts across the darkness behind his eyes with every hard thrust, shocks of sensation he can feel in the bones of his hips and rippling up his spine in waves, hot and full and perfect.

Tongue again, trailing across his jaw and up over his cheek, all the better to feel the hot and cold brush of breath against his skin. "Open your eyes."

Arthur shakes his head, or tries to. A broad, warm palm hooks beneath his knee, pushing, and Arthur folds with the pressure, pinned and open like a butterfly on mounting board. The cry shakes its way free from his throat with the next thrust, shattered and broken by the time it trickles past his teeth where a wet tongue laps it away. His hands stutter over all of the skin he can reach, grasping, pulling. _More,_ he wants to say, and _yes_, or maybe _no_, and _more, harder, please_, but his breath is breaking on the rhythm of their bodies and the endless splash of the rain and Arthur writes it out instead in the curved line of his nails across the other man's back.

Close, so close, teetering right on the edge, like the hazy nebulous moments between waking and dreaming. Arthur clenches around it, tightens and arches, chasing it with single minded intensity. There is nothing but this, this moment, the hard press of a body on and in him, the throb of it in flesh and bone, the pant of breath and the pattering music of the rain. So close, so damned close, each thrust counting down like an inevitable timer. He can feel himself burning with it, heat in his veins and coiling through him, tight and molten. Arthur pulls in a breath, exhales a gasp, feeling time stretch and thin right on the brink of too much and not enough.

Something wet - tongue, followed by breath - touches the corner of his eye, painting a wet streak across the lid. He draws in a sharp breath, lungs stuttering, but a hard hand catches his chin and won't let him turn away. "Open your eyes," a voice, as ruined as his own, demands. Puff of breath against his brow, his cheek, stuttered in the same rhythm as their bodies. The rain is louder now, deafening, mixed up in the too-fast patter of his heart within his chest and gasp of air through his lungs. A mouth slides across his own in the hard press of lips and teeth. "Open your eyes, love."

He wants to say no but one last, hard thrust shocks through arse and hips and he can't find breath as he tumbles over the edge, orgasm bursting through him with crystal clarity as he shudders, eyes flying open despite himself. Eames' eyes are as overcast as the sky, blown dark and wide in the last moments, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and the invisible imprint of Arthur's fingers. His smile, twisting the broad line of his mouth, never changes.

Above them the skylights are gone, vanished, nothing between them now and the low, boiling curl of moisture heavy clouds. Arthur opens his mouth, drawing in a broken gasp even as Eames' eyes slide closed, mouth open, the sound in his throat lost in the rush of the rain coming down as he shudders and comes. Arthur has one moment to feel it, know it, and then the first drops fall, heavy and cold and wet, and the rain comes down.

* * * * *

Arthur wakes with a heart hammering gasp, sucks in water, spits and chokes and claws his way up only to realize he's already there. There is bitterly cold water trickling down his shirt front and soaking through his vest, dripping from eyes and cheeks, and one last sliver of the ice that had been melting in Cobb's glass is worming its way beneath his collar to slide, sharp and frozen, down his neck.

Cobb is watching him with drawn down brows. "Alright?" he asks and Arthur nods, reaching up to sluice water off of his face before Cobb can take it into his head to throw any more of it.

"Yes," he says, and his voice is always off in his own ears on first waking, something rougher and less polished than he's used to, too like his dreams. "Yes, sorry. I didn't hear the countdown."

Cobb gives him a look which Arthur ignores - it isn't the first and won't be the last time anyone has ever missed a kick and it was only a trial run in the first place - but claps a hand to his shoulder and leaves him to the proper business of waking up and (more importantly) fishing the ice out of his collar. Arthur slicks back his hair and feels marginally more like himself by the time he takes off his tie and brushes the worst of it off. A glance at his watch shows that it's barely ten in the morning; the warehouse where they have set up shop is warm from the oppressively bright sun outside, promising a stickier heat by the afternoon, with nary a cloud in sight.

There's coffee brewing in a drip pot on one of the tables. Arthur heads for it but finds a mug pressed into his hands before he can reach for the pot - full, steaming, cream, no sugar.

"Thought you might not open your eyes there, for a bit, love," Eames says.

Arthur closes his eyes reflexively, covering it in the automatic lift of the mug in his hands, coffee and cream chasing away the dream phantasm of other tastes. "Don't be daft," he says, and his voice is his own, familiar, the sound of his words in the waking world where everything is exactly as it should be. "What would make me do that?"


End file.
